


The Velvet Dragon

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Fingering, Awesome Molly Hooper, Begging, Bondage and Discipline, Cock Cages, Cock Slapping, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dorks in Love, Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Face-Sitting, Gratuitous Smut, Hot, Hurts So Good, Loving Marriage, Married Sex, Oral Sex, Ownership, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, So Married, Sub Sherlock Holmes, domme Molly Hooper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: "You have always known that I am an unusual man, wife..."Sherlock Holmes has something rather wicked and wholly unexpected to ask his wife. Will she be shocked, titillated, or delighted?What do you think?AU Victorian





	The Velvet Dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Smutfest2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Smutfest2017) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> "You have always known that I am an unusual man, wife..."
> 
> Sherlock Holmes has something rather wicked and wholly unexpected to ask his wife. Will she be shocked, titillated, or delighted?
> 
> What do you think?

* * *

**THE VELVET DRAGON**

* * *

 

****

**_Musgrave Hall,_ **

**_Christmas Eve, 1895_ **

“You know that I am an… unusual man, my dear.”

 

And Mr. Sherlock Holmes, lately of Baker Street and of Musgrave Hall, turns towards his wife, Molly. Clears his throat.

 

His hands are clasped behind his back, his spine ramrod straight.

 

His expression, though stern, is tempered slightly by the red which warms his cheeks, and oh but he is mortifyingly aware of that.

 

_He is even more mortified, however, by what he is about to suggest to his lady wife._

 

Outside, gentle drifts of snow flutter through the air, slowly bathing the grounds of Musgrave Hall in white. Lending a bucolic, almost fairytale beauty to the stately old manor, though his Molly seems to see nothing of that.

 

No, rather she focuses those fine, dark eyes of hers upon him, her own cheeks beginning to flush. Her own pulse beginning to beat, there at her throat. Her sweet little hands twist the drawstrings of her white lace peignoir tightly together as she looks at him; In the pale, warm lamplight her skin seems buttery soft, and the thought makes Sherlock’s cock twitch in his smalls, the embarrassment of it made even worse when her gaze drops from his to the placket at the front of his trousers-

 

“An usual man,” she says faintly, her eyes on the slight bulge in his trousers, her voice a little breathless. A little knowing.

 

She catches herself staring at forces her gaze back up to his, the redness of her cheeks deepening.

 

It is matched by his own.

 

Perhaps aware of how vapid her answer must have sounded she straightens her shoulders. Tilts her head up and takes a breath. “Rather, I should say that I knew you were unusual, husband,” she says, trying to regain a more relaxed tone. “It was, in fact, one of the reasons I married you-”

 

“And your sweetness in accepting that is one of the reasons I married you,” Sherlock says, the words hurrying over hers even as he crosses the distance between them, coming to a halt right in front of her.

 

There’s less than a hand-span between them.

 

He is now rather aware of the beating of his own breathlessness, his own thudding heart.

 

_Sweet heaven, how is it she always does this to him?_

 

“You have always seemed to… accept my many eccentricities,” he continues quietly, rather than pondering that thought, and she nods. Reaches out to him so that her hands are now flattened against the lapels of his dressing-down. She has begun slowly opening the buttons of his pyjamas shirt; This close he can feel her breath puff against the bare skin of his chest, newly bared to her eyes and her attentions.

 

_Sherlock must admit, it all feels rather… delicious._

 

“It has been my pleasure to accept your eccentricities,” she tells him. She peeks up at him, her head cocked to the side, a small crinkle of curiosity peaking her brow- He can practically see the thoughts spinning in her head. “But what of it?” she asks. “Are you-? That is to say, do you-?”

 

She frowns, unable to find the words, perhaps. _It is not always easy, after all, to put the things they feel for one another into speech_. She moves to turn away from him but he stops her with a gentle hand at her elbow. Stares down at her, willing her to understand without having to actually articulate what he wants. She does sometimes do that.

 

When he doesn’t speak however, she steps closer. Replaces her hands at his chest.

 

“I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something, husband,” she murmurs, “but I must own, I haven’t a notion what.”

 

And she smiles at him, quick and lovely. With that soft, sweet shyness which she alone seems to possess, she reaches up and presses a chaste little kiss to his lips. Then one to his cheek. Then one to his jaw.

 

He finds them beautifully, damnably arousing.

 

Sherlock can’t help it, at her closeness his arms tighten on her elbows, his body suddenly pressed tightly against hers. They’re both breathing heavily now, their nearness and privacy so much more potent than they’d imagined when they first began courting all those years ago. He can feel heat beginning to pool in his veins, coals of lust tightening in his belly.

 

“Tell me, husband,” Molly whispers, “tell me what you want of me…”

 

And despite himself, despite the fact that he knows it’s brutish and improper and carnal, Sherlock lowers his head, presses a passionate, open-mouthed kiss to her lips- she sucks in a surprised breath at the pleasure of it.

 

“I have… I have a thing I wish to ask you, wife,” he tells her softly, and were he with anyone else he would be embarrassed by how roughened his voice is. “Rather, I have a gift I wish you to accept from me.”

 

“What gift is it?” she murmurs, her own voice dropping as arousal starts to heat it. “Does it concern my… wifely duties?”

 

Her tone is impish as he nods.

 

Before she can ask another question however he swoops in again, kisses her again. This time, scoundrel that he is, he slides his tongue against her lips and she opens, granting him entrance. Their tongues tangle together, sliding and slipping. Her arms come up to wrap around his neck and for a moment he is lost to all but his sweet, wonderful little wife and the sweet, wonderful way she holds him, but then-

 

They break apart, gasping for air, and before he can allow himself to lose either focus or courage, Sherlock walks away from her. Marches straight over to his nightstand and takes out an oblong velvet box of forest green which has been embroidered with Molly’s initials. _If he can’t tell her, he can show her, he tells himself._ Still hard- and still slightly breathless- he walks back to her. Hands the box to her.

 

He can see she’s curious as she opens it and he finds himself holding his breath.

 

Time seems to stall, then stutter to a halt as she lays her hand on something he’s been fantasising about giving her for more than a year. Truth be told, something he’s been fantasising about giving her since the moment he set eyes on her.

 

The device inside the box is stainless steel. Sleek. Perfectly fitted- _As it should be._

 

Its shape- if one is familiar with anatomy- is obviously that of the male member but though Molly’s cheeks heat at the sight of it, Sherlock isn’t quite sure she recognises what it is.

 

_A cock cage, is not, after all, the sort of object of which genteel ladies are expected to be aware._

 

A tiny key nestles beside it in the velvet, a black silk ribbon threaded through the key’s head to make it into a pendant, and when Molly picks this up, when she holds it to the light, he feels arousal wash through him, perhaps more powerfully than it ever has before… _How many times has he imagined her doing just that?_

 

“What is this, husband?” Molly asks, and though he knows he should have expected her curiosity, he finds himself rendered mute by seeing this object, so long dreamt of and fantasised about, in her grasp.

 

_His mouth feels as dry as the Kalahari._

 

“It’s… It’s for me,” he says quietly and instantly feels like a clot for so unhelpful an answer. “And for you, if you’ll permit it.” He walks over to her, takes the key from her fingers and unlocks the device. Opens it up and shows it to her. “It’s… I should ask that you put it on me,” he says. “That you put it on my-”

 

“On your prick?”

 

She says the words crisply, and instantly his hardness increases, the discomfort of it increasing too.

 

_Jesus, she’s not laid a hand on him and already he feels like she might kill him._

 

“So you…” She notices and with another impish smile reaches out, presses her little hand against his erection and begins to gently caress, through the fabric. “You want me to put this inside it?”

 

She palms his length.

 

“Yes,” he manages to get out, his hips starting to move against her administrations. “It’s designed to, em, to lock around my…”

 

“Around your manhood?” she asks and this time there’s no nervousness in her voice. This time she sounds like she knows exactly what she’s talking about, the little devil. Sherlock blinks down at her, surprised. Awash in lust, but surprised.

 

The expression which she throws him is dazzling.

 

“I must admit, I’m not entirely shocked,” she tells him. “I knew you were thinking of it, and so I had the lovely Miss Adler provide some information on what it might entail for me-”

 

He grips her wrist, stopping her attentions. “You spoke to Irene Adler?” he demands, well aware of how dangerous his former paramour is. “You could have been harmed-”

 

“But I wasn’t.” Her voice is soothing and not at all contrite. She has also recommenced those damnably pleasant caresses against his erection, her other hand snaking around to knead and palm his arse. To pinch. Sherlock has always in the past been clear about what he likes done to him, and he finds himself frustrated as he realises just how educated his wife has become in pleasuring him- _Oh but he married a damnably wicked woman-_

 

“So you agree?” he asks, aware by now that his voice is no longer quite steady.

 

“On the bed,” she says by way of answer, and the shy, demure wife of earlier is utterly gone now.

 

His Molly knows what game they’re playing, and she knows just how to play it too.

 

“Clothes off,” she says as he moves towards the bed. “I want to look at you as I take you.” Another smile. “You are so beautiful when I fuck you, husband.”

 

_Despite what many men might think of such language Sherlock is oh so happy to comply._

 

He struggles out of his dressing-gown, his pyjamas. He’s suddenly rather grateful that he’s barefoot. He leans back onto the chill, soft linens of their marriage bed, the fabric cool against his back. His shoulders. His arse. Stretches himself out languidly, already eager for what’s to happen, like the cunt-hungry little wanton he is. She laughs, and it sounds smoky. Low. It tingles along his skin, making it twitch into gooseflesh.

 

As he watches, Molly pulls open the peignoir. Lets it fall to the ground. Steps out of it, and, the straps pulled down over her shoulders, out of her nightdress.

 

They pool in the floor at her feet, a sea-wave of silk and cotton.

 

Naked now, confident now, she saunters towards him, pulling her plaited hair loose as she does so, letting it tumble around her perfect little breasts. Her perfect, white shoulders- _She is so very beautiful that sometimes he’s honestly surprise she’s his-_

 

Smiling, she takes the green velvet box containing his device and places it on their dressing stand beside their bed. Takes the key on its ribbon and loops it around her neck.

 

It nestled mouth-wateringly against the flushed skin of her breasts.

 

“We’ll never fit that beautiful, thick prick inside so small a cage,” she tells him softly, and Sherlock might be mistaken, but he could have sworn he just let out a small, entirely helpless, moan at her words.

 

Her smile as she gets onto the bed turns incendiary.

 

“So I suppose I shall have to fuck you until your sated, shan’t I, husband?” she says primly. “I shall have to drain every drop out of you, and then my prize can be locked away, as we both wish it to be.”

 

And she reaches out, slides one little hand gently over the thick, red head of his penis. He gasps at the touch, hips bucking, and she clicks her tongue admonishingly. Takes her hand away and taps lightly at his cock, making it snap against his belly.

 

He hisses in pleasure and pain, baring his teeth, and she grins.

 

“You know the procedure, darling,” she purrs. “Arms up, grasp the headboard.”

 

He does as he’s told.

 

“Do you know what will happen should you let go of the headboard without permission?”

 

“You’ll stop,” he says, voice rough. “You’ll- You’ll climb off and give yourself pleasure and leave me wanting-”

 

“Leave you aching.” Molly corrects. She’s smiling now, her hand moving back to his cock. With her other hand she’s starting playing with herself, two little fingers slicking inside her cunt. “Now show me what a gorgeous little slattern I married-”

 

And with a wicked smile she moves so that her chest is draped over him, her mouth sliding open to gently suckle the top of his penis. To pleasure him. She licks the bulbous head, her lips pursing, and begins moving her head. Suckling him sweetly. Sherlock lets out a long, low moan of pleasure and he feels her triumphant laughter rumble against his prick. His balls. _She does so love to make him moan_. One hand, slicked with her juices, moves to his stones to coax and tease, her cheeks hollowing as she takes in more and more of him-

 

He lets out another longer, lower moan of her name and as he does so she pulls off with a wet-sounding pop.

 

The sense of loss is wrenching.

 

Out of habit he opens his mouth to plead for more but one look at her smile silences him.

 

“It occurs to me, husband, that your mouth could be put to better uses than moaning,” she tells him, and as she begins to crawl up his body. She licks her lips as she stares down at him. His cock twitches, his seed just beginning to leak from its tip, under her gaze and mortification and desire, both toe-curlingly pleasant, trickly through his insides. “It occurs to me too that your tongue should be better employed in making your lady wife come, don’t you think, darling?”

 

And without waiting for him to answer she moves so that she’s straddling his shoulders, her sweet little arse leaning against his chest. Her sweet little cunt right in front of him. It feels so right and proper to have her there that a shudder of pleasure- peacefulness- washes through him. _Suddenly he is right where he needs to be._

 

With a wicked grin she takes the hands he’d used to grasp the headboard and moves them down so that she might better sit astride his face, her smile widening as she lowers herself onto him-

 

Being as well-trained as he is (and as eager) Sherlock takes a deep breath.

 

Centres himself.

 

He concentrates on the delicious pressure of her cunny against his jaw, her body against his shoulders.

 

Shifting his weight so that he might lean up into her more he opens his mouth and slowly, slowly slides his tongue out to wet his lips. To draw in breath. He nudges his nose fondly against the soft, dark hair before him, breathing in the perfume of her juices deeply and then-

 

As he knows he should, as she’s trained him to- he slides his tongue right in. Begins to suckle her. Lick her. Devour her.

 

His hands slide around waist, palms and fingers filling with the sweet, round flesh of her arse-cheeks and in tandem they both sigh.

 

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Yes…”

 

He feels her thighs tense against his jaw, hears her slight moan of pleasure. He gazes up at her and as he does she smiles, nods, one little hand coming down to stroke through his hair even as she murmurs just how good he’s being for her. What a beautiful little whore he is, her darling, beautiful boy. With a grunt Sherlock’s tongue slides up further into her heat, the juices of her dripping into his mouth now as he sucks and licks and sweetly, sweetly, hungrily-sweetly fucks her-

 

The gentle hand at his hair tightens, yanks deliciously at his scalp, and then, as she always does, his wife starts to ride his face. To make him work her.

 

It’s breathless and delicious, more pleasurable than almost anything.

 

In fact it’s so pleasurable that Sherlock never wants it to stop.

 

Molly moans and hisses and jerks against his jaw, urging him on and on until he’s gasping. Shaking. And yet, she will not let him cease, will not let him rest. Rather she slaps lightly at his shoulders, his hip. Orders him onwards. She tugs viciously at his hair, her breath loud and obscene in the stillness of their room, as a stream of vulgarities tumble from her lovely, ladylike lips and her beautiful little tits bounce and shake and sway.

 

Sherlock tightens his grip on her backside, uses it as leverage. Digs his heels into the bed so he can press more fully into her.She keeps whispering and moaning to him that she wants more, more more. _She always wants more._ Time seems to stutter, to break apart, the thrill of what she’s doing to him some abominable, sinful new equation-

 

And then she comes, his name scattered from her throat like a handful of leaves in the wind.

 

Liquid gushes into his mouth from within her and he laps it up diligently, swallows her down to the last drop.

 

_If one asks a lady like his Molly to play then one had best accept to rules that she plays by._

 

Still shaking with the pleasure of her climax, she raises herself from his mouth. Moves down the bed until she’s lying beside him. She’s trembling. This close he can hear her how breathless she is, feel her softness and heat against him. She continues to orgasm, the aftershocks moving through her until she curls around his chest, half protective, almost, half sated and yet still aroused.

 

He feels a wash of both pride and protectiveness move through him as he watches her.

 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re good at that,” she tells him.

 

He nods to her, arms moving back up to hold onto the headboard, eyes still locked on hers.

 

He wants to show her just how good he can be for her.

 

“You own this mouth,” he says roughly. “The least it owes you is pleasure.”

 

She beams, kisses him full on the lips and he smiles because he knows she can taste herself on him. He knows his words have pleased her. “Do you want to lower your arms?” she asks him tenderly and reluctantly he nods. He is a little stiff. She gives permission, taking his arms and wrapping them around her. Cuddling into him.

 

They’re flesh to flesh, not a breath of daylight between them and as Molly kisses him and Sherlock thinks his heart might beat out of his chest.

 

But it doesn’t- Instead it begins to beat faster. It feels as if his cock is twitching too, a river of pulsation counting in time. For now that she’s had her first climax Molly’s decided she wants her next. _And the one after, and the one after probably;_ Sherlock knows his wife is insatiable when she’s feeling like this. So with soft whispers and gentle, nudging kisses, she urges him to move on top of her. Spreading her thighs she opens herself up to him, murmuring that she wants to take him inside her. She wants to take him deep.

 

“After all, if I’m to drain you properly than I shall need to take all that you can give me,” she whispers.

 

Another impish, wicked smile, though there’s tenderness in it now, too. Sherlock shivers against her, overwhelmed almost by the loveliness of it. Of them.

 

He feels her hand caress his cheek. His lip. “I won’t be happy until every drop of your seed has been spent within me,” she says. Another kiss. “So I want you to give me your come, husband. I want you to lose control. Give me everything you have, so that I can finally cage you as you’ve asked me to-”

 

And she pulls him to her. Spreads her thighs wider. Her hips cradle his in warmth, as does her heart.

 

 _His has,_ he muses, _always been hers._

 

It’s less easy, like this, Sherlock thinks. Not their usual preference, not as pliant as he’s used to being for her. But then, he muses, that’s probably the point: riding him to completion requires no real effort on his part. Asking him to work this out, to ascertain how best he might pleasure her, puts the responsibility for her release more wholly in his court.

 

It also allows him to earn the right to wear his cage.

 

He smiles at the thought, seeing the wisdom of it.

 

“Oh but I you are clever, wife,” he tells her.

 

She smiles up at him - “guessed it, did you?”- and he nods. Shifts his weight so that he’s not pressing down too hard on her. _Just because he’s not used to this position, it doesn’t mean he gets to behave boorishly or not give her her due_. His finger brush against her entrance, already wet and still sensitive: She rocks her hips in encouragement, telling him where she wants him, and he smiles. Nods. Slides two fingers inside her, even as he buries his nose and mouth against her throat and starts licking and kissing and making mischief there-

 

“Do you want to fuck me, wife?” he murmurs into her neck and she nods.

 

Her nails scrabble messily against his shoulders. His arse.

 

She digs her fingers into the buttocks, pulling the cheeks apart and making him feel open. Vulnerable. Wantonly animal.

 

“Oh yes,” she tells him. “I want to make you come so hard that you see stars.” And she shivers, one foot jerking against his calf. He smiles, reaching his free hand down and taking her little ankle. Using it to hoist her leg up higher on his hip. It opens her up more to him and he senses more than sees her pleasure. She jerks against his and he takes his cock in hand. Slides it down against her belly, her hip, before placing it at her entrance.

 

“Like this?” And he thrusts gently, tenderly, inside her.

 

Their eyes meet and again he shivers.

 

He enters her barely an inch and together they sigh.

 

“Just like that, husband,” she says breathlessly. She lays his forehead on his. “Just like that… You’re always so bloody good for me...”

 

And she takes his face in her hands. Kisses his forehead. His cheeks and eyelids. He thrusts into her a little more. Forces her leg higher again on his hip, opening her further up. _It’s so good that_ _he_ _moans_. She smiles wickedly up at him, moving her other leg to match it. Crossing her ankles at the base of his spine.

 

“Is that all you have husband?” she asks tauntingly. “Is that all you’re going to do to me-?”

 

“Never.” As she speaks Sherlock starts moving more sharply. Snapping his hips into her. He shifts his weight to one hands and then reaches the other in between them. Presses against that spot he knows so well- her pearl- and starts gently teasing her there.

 

Molly’s breath catches, her eyes fluttering shut. This is new, his giving her such attention without being ordered. _He can see what it’s doing to her._

 

“Fuck me, husband,” she murmurs and her voice is at that throaty, low pitch that indicates deep arousal. “Fuck me as hard as you can-”

 

And she starts rutting roughly up into him, her arse lifting off the bed with each thrust. He meets her movements with equal energy, pistoning his hips and burying himself inside her, over and over again. They lose control; mouths and kisses and hands seem to everywhere. Fingers scrape through his hair and dig into his arse-cheeks. One finger slips and slides wantonly against the ring of his anus until he opens up and lets her in with a whine. _Christ, it feels good when she does that._ She drags his mouth to her breasts and sucks on her nipples, drawing them into tightness until she’s panting and saying his name, the bed-frame shaking with the energy of it-

 

She bites his shoulder, teeth breaking the skin and tongue lavering sweetness onto the wound. As she does so she slides another finger into him and at this- the feeling of being so penetrated- Sherlock lets out an animal, helpless whine. Gives himself entirely to the carnality his Mistress has made. Pleasure snaps through him, his head dropping down to her breasts as he comes and suddenly he’s emptying himself inside her- “Oh God, oh God-”

 

His cock swells, gushes. It feels like there must be a river running through him.

 

“Oh God, oh God-”

 

Molly tightens her thighs’ grip on him and tells him to pump it all inside her. To give her all he has left of himself.

 

“Let me have it, husband,” she coos to him, “Give me every last inch of your seed, love…”

 

And so he does. He pours himself out, pours himself into her.

 

It feels absolutely, totally freeing.

 

Spent, breathless, eventually Sherlock collapses on her, just as she finds her own completion.

 

She jerks against his fingers- how are they still inside her?- and again she nips at his flesh, his throat this time. Her body shudders and trembles as she comes in the aftershock of his climax; he can feel her cunt fluttering against his fingertips.

 

In the aftermath they’re quiet, drowsy and sated and in that place where words are not quite wanted. Not quite needed. He only ever comes here with his Molly. The clock ticks and the wind whistles outside the window-still but in their bedroom they are still.

 

And then, to his surprise (though perhaps he shouldn’t feel that) Molly reaches out. Opens the green box he gave her.

 

His cock cage glints in the lamplight.

 

Wordlessly, she kneels on the bed. Wipes down his member with the sheets and then gently, tenderly folds him inside it.

 

With loving fingers she closes it over, asking as she does whether it’s alright? Whether it hurts? He shakes his head and brings her hand to his lips kisses it.

 

She takes the key around her neck and presses it too to his mouth. When he kisses it, she bring it to her own lips to do likewise.

 

“We will trial it,” she tells him, and he nods. “If you are in pain, or this isn’t what you want, then it will end, is that clear?”

 

She’s always so kind to him, his Molly.

 

“Completely,” Sherlock tells her, a sense of peacefulness settling over him as she leans down and locks the cock-cage with her key. She kisses it once more before laying it back against her heart.

 

“And now that that’s sorted,” she announces, a glint in her eye, “Shall we set about the rest of my night’s pleasure, or does my darling boy need a respite?”

 

For a moment Sherlock is tempted to tell her that yes he does, but then-

 

“This body is yours, wife, to do with as you please,” he tells her.

 

Molly beams in the lamplight and kisses him sweetly.

 

“That is an excellent point, husband,” she tells him-

 

And she and her husband take things from there.

 

 

 


End file.
